


Between Teacup and Trowel

by briaeveridian



Series: Historical AUs [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ben POV, Ben will be FLUSTERED a LOT, Edwardian Period, F/M, I love to make them awkward, Leia sets Ben and Kay up together, Rey POV, Rey is incognito, Soft Ben Solo, Victorian era, fiesty rey, gardening aesthetic, it doesn't last long for REASONS, mothers can be pushy, teahouse aesthetic, the force ships it ALWAYS, this is kind of my dream okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-24
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-28 21:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briaeveridian/pseuds/briaeveridian
Summary: Ben Solo, owner of Skywalker Publishing, finds himself in the uncomfortable position of having to tell a woman he is not romantically interested in her, despite incessant motherly pressures to wed. As Ben tries to navigate this regrettable situation, he finds himself blundering into an even more compromising circumstance with an unexpected person. It is the worst of first encounters and Ben commits himself to correcting it, no matter what his mother says.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Historical AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218806
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Between Teacup and Trowel

**Author's Note:**

> A first attempt at historical fluff :) 
> 
> I'm not a historian and only did a small amount of research. Hopefully, nothing is glaringly inaccurate! Please let me know if you spot something that needs adjusting!

“This day could not possibly turn worse,” Ben grumbles.

The ascot contorts at his throat, refusing to be arranged despite how long his fingers have been working on the tie. On top of that, it feels much too tight. _It chokes the same the way civilized society generally does, with its specific pressures and pervasive rigidity. There’s poetry in that. Bitter poetry._

Ben grits his teeth, lifting his chin further to get a better grasp on the silky, checkered fabric.

If he could live in a world purely of books, without having to talk to anyone, he most gladly would. He’d leave all this behind; the ascot and the polite talk, the way people _look_ at him as a Skywalker, Organa, and Solo, the requirement to follow a normal path through life. _Stuff it all._

Dejectedly, Ben glances through the window. It has a few streaks of discoloration, he notes with irritation, an undeniable combination of fingers and dust. _The only expectation I seem to live up to is how incapable I am of taking care of myself._ Ben diligently takes a deep breath and releases it to quell his growing resentment.

After refusing to allow “the help” to enter his room (his claim of being a _grown man,_ not a child who needs picking up after ringing in his mind), such tasks have been sorely neglected. Not on purpose, but simply because he doesn’t observe or consider their importance in keeping a comfortable home. By now, he is accustomed and doesn’t mind very much, so long as he has no guests over. And the likelihood of anyone coming to visit is quite slim, considering his preferred solitary existence and how little most people like him.

Focusing again on the weather, Ben watches the relentless slash of rain as it cuts an odd angle against the smudged pane. With the addition of an incessant, noisy wind, he must fully accept that spring has arrived, accompanied by various pollen and overt cheerfulness from strangers and acquaintances alike. He finds both aggravating, but for different reasons.

Spring also heralds the start of him _finding a good match,_ as his mother has declared for a series of years beyond his counting. Ben Solo, the descendant of Anakin Skywalker and heir to the enormously successful _Skywalker Publishing,_ could not be less bothered about his unmarried status. Nonetheless, it has occupied the majority of his mother’s concentration the past several years, to his chagrin.

Leia Organa, the impressive individual who Ben calls mother, has never been known to back down on any matter. Everyone in the family knows this, and most of London is also privy to this understanding. However, Ben would not let the topic of his betrothal go uncontested and pursued the issue doggedly, arguing for his own preference and desires as they relate to his own life. 

Eventually, to everyone’s shock, the woman relented, but only just.

Their compromise that he be allowed to keep to himself in the cooler months is the largest reprieve Ben can hope for. Even this small degree of autonomy was a hard-fought battle, with numerous debates made more prickly by liquor and passions.

As a descendant of the duchess Padme Amidala, Leia had many privileges growing up that established her within the higher echelons of the London community. 

Her husband, Han Solo, did not. He was abandoned by his parents and was lucky enough (compared to life on the streets, one would argue), to find his way to an orphanage at a young age. Han never found a family to take him in until he was an adult encountering the younger Miss Organa. 

From a societal perspective, Leia’s and Han’s marriage was an act of rebellion. But her family didn’t see it that way; there was no stopping how the Skywalker-Organa clan claimed him as one of their own, despite Han/s less-than-ideal childhood. They all made it clear they didn’t see him as a charity case, but a good man who they genuinely loved.

Ben knows the story of his parents’ meeting well and chooses not to think on it. The passions betwixt one’s parents should stay betwixt them, he has always believed. Somehow, there are infrequent yet no less vivid moments when Ben envies their companionship. For even when the two of them struggle in their relationship, they always find a path forward together.

He can’t help pondering that kind of reliability, acceptance, and support (without even considering _love_ ) in concrete and emotionally-heavy ways. Of course, he thinks these are weak moments, and chastises himself extensively for such self-indulgence. He values his isolation over all else, including the possible tenderness of spending one’s life with another. 

The flexibility Leia experienced with choosing her spouse is one that Ben sees the immense irony of. She has continued to defy norms within London and beyond, except for in the case of her son, whom she has committed herself to making sure is accepted and lauded as a gentleman of society. Ben cannot stomach the hypocrisy.

At least his Uncle Luke understands. He never married, and instead dedicated himself to sailing the publishing ship for decades after his father Anakin retired. Under Luke’s guidance, the publishing house expanded to include works on philosophy and poetry, in addition to short stories and fiction from less represented writers.

It was logical for Ben to become the operating publisher when the time came, or rather when he ended his brief and fervent mutiny against this expectation as well.

To Ben’s surprise more than anyone else’s, he discovered a level of purpose and joy he wasn’t sure he’d ever find in life, let alone carrying on the family business. From working with authors to organizing the letters for the press, Ben loved every moment of it. His mother had made a series of subdued _I told you so_ sounds while Uncle Luke offered an expansive smile. Ben’s father had simply patted him roughly on the back, glad to see his son settling into adulthood.

And this is how things have gone since Ben turned twenty-two. He holds few regrets as he nears his thirtieth birthday.

_Except that I stand here, intended to have tea with a strange woman my mother has dubbed appropriate._

The rain pelts harder outside while Ben tugs aggressively at his vest. This in turn disrupts his mostly neat ascot and he clenches his teeth. With a groan, he lumbers to the standing mirror in his modest flat, which has little more than a bed, dresser, table, closet, and large bookcase.

Rolling his shoulders back, he takes himself in.

The dark tweed slacks look nearly too short, but that must simply be accepted. He refuses to use funds to purchase new clothes. _Far more vital recipients of money exist._ The tailored coat appears clean enough and the shine of his shoes would warrant only a small reprimand from his mother. He supposes the rain will help or make it worse.

Adjusting the brown tweed coat, Ben swipes his hair back and snatches his favored Homburg hat from the table. _This will have to do. I hope not to offend Miss Connix with my appearance. But I also hope not to mislead with my intentions._

No matter what his mother says, he will not be marrying.

Especially if his options are limited to women who have significant standing in the community, who pass his mother’s requirements. Any such person holds little interest to him. And what is the purpose of coupling other than to appease society at large? Perhaps it is as simple as finding companionship. Or perhaps he only wishes that.

His mother makes this process needlessly complicated, which he rails against and continues to forge his own path. Unsurprisingly, this exasperates her, yet he does suspect she’s begrudgingly proud of him doing so (though she’d never admit it). At the end of the day, Ben cannot understand why the matter of his personal life must be discussed so thoroughly by family and strangers alike.

_I am content. Is that not enough?_

He wraps his fingers around the umbrella by his front door, knocking it on the wall in his impatience, and descends the staircase to the entryway of the building. 

Stepping outside, the rain splatters onto the black umbrella and upon the cobblestones. There is enough water on the ground to create little rivers here and there. Ben must conclude that the rain will indeed make him look much worse upon his arrival at his destination. With a sigh, Ben starts trotting along, planning his speech to explain to the young woman with as much respect and kindness as possible that he has no interest in courtship.

_Please do not flub it up, Ben. For the sake of everyone involved._

Hurrying across the empty street (for who would _choose_ to be out in this weather), Ben glowers at the flecks of water landing on his trousers, each one leaving a dark splotch upon the fibers. He curses London storms, not for the first time, and ducks through various side streets to shorten the journey. He encounters no one else, to his relief.

His heart flounders through several beats from his dash across town and crackling nerves. Along the way, he reminds himself to uncoil his fists, lest he break the skin and have quite an alarming explanation to provide regarding the state of his hands.

Slipping down another alley, Ben slows his pace and tries to calm his breathing. _My mother. Relentless and determined, she is. And no matter how many kind and pleasant women she presents, no matter how many I politely decline, she always finds more._

When at last Lady Amilyn’s Teahouse comes into view, Ben shakes himself. The rain hasn’t lessened but he thinks that perhaps he won the war against his hammering heart. For now, at least.

The door swings open as he mounts the steps. White and clean, the teahouse boasts high fashionable curtains (or what Ben assumes is fashionable) with tiny blue stripes and a lovely hand-painted sign. He jiggles another layer of moisture from his umbrella, handing it to the gentleman with bright red hair at the door.

The shorter man offers a tight smile. “Welcome, sir. Are you attending with someone?”

Ben swallows his apprehension. “Yes, a Miss Connix, accompanied by Miss Holdo.”

The man’s eyes grow wide. “Mr. Solo, yes, of course. Right this way, then. Quite dreary weather today!” he announces, leading Ben through the expansive sitting room.

Roughly a dozen tables fill the space, but under half are taken. Ben imagines on a nice day the teahouse would easily be at capacity with a whole bevy of those engaged in courtship, those who are out and about with family, and those trading gossip over the tea leaves.

Lost in thought, Ben doesn’t reply to the comment about the weather. His eyes keep reaching across the faces in an attempt to guess who he will be meeting, and identifies her quickly. He works his jaw.

The young woman is precisely who his mother described. Blonde curls cling to her forehead and she wears a dress of a light green shade dotted with bits of lace in a pattern Ben cannot discern. He supposes that such details are also likely fashionable. He finds them frivolous and distracting.

She appears positively stiff with anxiety. He swallows again. _At least we are in the same state of mind._

“Here you are, sir. Enjoy your time.” The man bows brusquely and weaves his way back to the entrance. 

Miss Connix looks up at Ben, eyes round as moons. At the last moment, he remembers to remove his hat.

Ben stands there briefly, unsure what to say. She gathers herself and stands as well, lips working into a forced smile.

 _She appears to detest this as much as I already._ He dismisses the thought and bows his head.

“Miss Connix, how pleased I am to meet you after everything my mother has told me.” 

She extends her hand out of habit. “Mister Skywalker,” she says, throat seemingly stuck with air.

He pities her more than himself, suddenly.

“I prefer Solo if that’s alright,” Ben replies, motioning her to find her seat. “We are both well aware that my mother has arranged for our meeting. She believes we would make a strong match,” he states flatly, needing to attend to the distressing business quickly.

Miss Connix blushes slightly. “She and my mother are dear friends. For years they have planned for us to cross paths. I am sorry it has not occurred sooner.” She looks away.

 _She is quite young. Perhaps her debut took place only recently. But for mother to be scheming in this way for so long..._ Ben feels his anger rising.

He opens his mouth, ready to declare the next part of his speech when a lady appears. Her skirts take up a copious amount of space. Ben recoils instinctively from the abrupt appearance but recognizes her at once.

“Mister Solo, Miss Connix, I am truly glad to welcome you both! As a friend of both your mothers, it is my honor to visit with you today,” Amilyn says with the kind of smile that makes Ben blink.

“And thank you for taking the time, Miss Holdo,” Ben replies with an incline of his head. 

Trepidation winds a tight knot in his chest. _How will I get the dreaded words from my mouth? What will Lady Amilyn think?_

“Oh, Benjamin. I have known you since you were a child, close enough to consider as an aunt after all these years. Please at least call me Lady Amilyn.”

He nods vigorously, simply wishing to move through the interaction before he evaporates from discomfort. “Of course, Lady Amilyn.”

“You are looking well,” she comments with a twinkle in her eye. 

He presses his lips into a smile, unsure what exactly the expression could look like to others, but hoping it isn’t pained.

Amilyn shifts her focus. “And Miss Connix. Congratulations on your debut. I’m sure you will find a match quickly, one full of respect and adoration.”

Miss Connix flushes. “I wouldn’t dare presume such success this early into the season…”

“Nonsense,” Lady Amilyn cuts in. “You are beautiful, intelligent, and kind, with an excellent family. Benjamin is lucky to have a chance to meet with you.” The woman smiles serenely, clearly proud of her introductions.

In the subsequent silence, Ben senses Amilyn is waiting for him to begin speaking. His stomach plummets, lungs compress. _Oh no. This is the end. I shall perish here on the spot._

Clenching his fists beneath the table Ben focuses on what’s before him. Lace covers the table, pristine and ironed to a crisp. The plates and cups are painted with delicate baby blue and rosy-hued flowers, each petal swiped with a precise brush. He cannot find any words to utter aloud so he keeps staring, relating to their concave emptiness.

Just then, tea arrives. Amilyn busies herself with pouring the beverage in each cup. It steams and for a moment, Ben finds himself transfixed by the vapors. Amilyn casts a look toward Ben, waiting for him to take up the battalion of communication.

He tears his eyes from the tea and clears his throat.

“How--”

“When--” Ben speaks the moment Miss Connix does. Her cheeks turn reddish but she manages to carry on, a true lady with social skills to match. He envies her, slightly.

“How is life in the publishing business, Mister Solo?”

Lady Amilyn glances between them, a restrained smile pulling at her lips. Ben tries to ignore her.

This is a topic he can lose himself in. “Well, I have discovered an author whom I believe will be quite an incredible addition to the literary community. She--”

“She?” Miss Connix blinks her surprise.

Ben stalls for a moment, guessing his more progressive ways may shock many. “Yes, her name is Rose Tico. She is an immigrant from the other side of the world and has an extraordinary story-telling ability.” Ben glances around the decorated sitting room, trying to find a topic to engage Miss Connix with since the prior one proved risky. 

His brain seizes on a question.

“Miss Connix, has your family lived in London long?”

Amilyn gives him a private encouraging nod.

Miss Connix relaxes. “For several years, yes...”

She continues speaking, animated at last. But Ben cannot comprehend her words anymore, his mind in a flurry. _This has been derailed. I am now asking more about her upbringing, showing an interest._ His palms feel clammy. He rises to stand, in need of an immediate escape.

“Please excuse me, Lady Amilyn, Miss Connix,” he interrupts shakily. Both the women jolt. “I need a bit of fresh air…” His voice comes out pitchy. With an unnecessary and stilted bow, Ben flies from the tea room and toward the closest exit. In his hurry, he still observes the confused expressions of the women still seated at the table.

“Are you alright, Benjamin?” Amilyn calls.

Ben jerks his head backward in an affirmative manner, hoping it does the job of soothing her concerns. However, he’s not so naive, and knows for a fact that his mother will promptly be updated on his uncouth and inconsiderate behavior.

_Lovely. That is precisely what I need in my life right now. Another scolding about my unfriendly disposition._

His feet carry him forward, yet his vision seems to blur from an over-pumping of blood. Swiping at his brow, he realizes it is swathed in beads of sweat. Ben snatches his kerchief from its small pocket on his lapel and dabs at it impatiently. _I simply must remove myself from this situation. It is abhorrent to be forced to confess a lack of interest in an otherwise very fine lady._

Darting through the back of the teahouse, Ben passes an open door that bustles with activity. He glances inside, seeing the back-and-forth of wait staff and bakers making various little puffs of cream and chocolate. He carries on down the hall, eyes fixing upon a tidy white door on the left. Sweeping toward it, Ben’s fingers wrap around the small metal handle. He exhales with relief to find it unlocked.

Only when the rain hits his face does he remember the state of the weather.

“Drats,” he mutters fiercely, recognizing he forgot his hat on the table. He hovers near the door, debating whether or not to venture farther. But the twisting of his stomach demands movement, so he risks the drenching.

He rushes to the left along the back of the teahouse. It’s not a cold rain, at least. Still, it trickles down his back, saturating the tweed at once.

The moment he rounds the corner he collides with something that makes surprised, yelping noises upon impact. The next thing he is aware of is losing his balanace, slipping, _falling_ forward, onto the other something that continues to protest in high-pitched shrieks.

“Get off. GET OFF!” the person demands and Ben becomes vaguely aware of his position on top of this stranger. Mud squelches around them, rain continuing its attack.

Ben is frozen from horror.

“Oh, please excuse--” he stammers, jerking back from the person. Ben, coming back to himself gradually, notices the individual’s cap that now sits in the mud. He glances at the young man who was just wearing it, ready to apologize thoroughly.

Only, it’s not a man at all.

“Don’t look at me!” she hisses, snatching the cap. She piles her soaking wet hair back under it, and with a huffing noise, she jumps to her feet.

Ben is too stunned to move.

“Ex-cuse--” Ben stutters, staring at the young woman dressed in men’s clothes. Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, fabric stained with dirt but arms rinsed by the storm. The vest she wears is a bit too large and the state of her pants would leave most people of higher standing gawking at their state. She has freckles that catch his attention in a most bewildering way.

Belatedly, Ben spots the trowel that rests in the muck beside him. He picks it up, slowly bringing it to her. She grabs it forcefully and glowers at him.

_Oh, the myriad ways I insult women._

“I am truly sorry. Are you alright?” Ben finally asks. The woman stands before him, arranging her clothes in haphazard and urgent ways. He can tell she’s starting to shiver. Ben lurches to his feet.

“I apologize for my lack of awareness. I hope I did not hurt you.”

“It’s fine,” comes her forced, gutteral response. She won’t look at him.

Ben wonders what could have caused a woman to choose to be a gardener at a teahouse.

She either gives up arranging herself or decides it’s good enough, for the next moment she is huffing and stomping away. Ben stares where she stood for a split second, then scrambles after her, though he cannot explain why.

“Wait! I would simply like to know if you are alright! If I hurt you--” Ben stops yelling, acknowledging the volume and desperation of his voice are not persuading her. 

“Do not concern yourself!” she snaps. The young woman disappears into the trimmed rows of foliage. 

He stops running.

_Well that was unfortunate. I suppose it’s best I be on my way now._

Turning back to the teahouse, Ben concludes there is no way he can present himself to anyone in his current state, even though his hat remains inside. He hurries to the front and leaves a note with the red-haired gentleman, explaining his sudden departure due to an accident in the rain, and apologizes profusely for leaving so rudely. Then he retrieves his umbrella and hurries home.

Each step takes him farther from the scene of his incredible embarrassment. Yet, there was something about the young gardener that Ben cannot shake. Though her look had been overflowing with contempt, that she had been _found out,_ Ben was captured by her eyes, entranced by the look of strength stitched into her. He couldn’t help feeling intrigued by her role as a laborer, whether chosen or forced. He would wager the former, based on her countenance.

Ben has a peculiar and improper impulse to find the young woman and properly explain. To apologize for making her uncomfortable (and also knocking her into the mud). In a most unfamiliar manner, Ben cares what the woman thinks, hopes that he won’t be lumped in with the other rich and thoughtless people who patronize the teahouse. The sheer need to prove something to her baffles him. 

The soggy city slips by under his feet as he tries to sort his confusion. _I do not know her and she clearly resents our first encounter. But perhaps if I went back… without the accompaniment of a young woman who deserves a far different kind of man than I…_ Without realizing it, he makes it to the door of his building, wetter than he has ever been. 

_Perhaps I should ask my mother to meet me there. I can further plead my case, as well as poor Miss Connix’s. And perhaps I will see the gardener again. It w_

All at once, he thinks he could be living in a novel; a man mesmerized by a woman in disguise, wracking his brain for chances to see her again. Whatever plan he formulates, it’s obvious he’ll have to work on his approach.

And that’s when he has an idea.

Ben sweeps through the building, mounting the steps to his flat three at a time. On his way, he tries to limit the spread of drops splattering everywhere. He fails, and the proprietress of the house, Ms. Maz, notices. She sweeps through the dining room doors, skirts swishing in her haste.

“Benjamin, would it be too much to ask that you dry off before running through our home?”

“I’m sorry,” he yelps over his shoulder. “I fell in a puddle…”

Ms. Maz tuts softly. “Well, go clean yourself up. I’ll make coffee.”

Ben nods gratefully. “I would very much appreciate that. Along with your advice about a private situation.” He’s halfway up the stairs, unsure why he spoke those words. They took on a life of their own, flitting through his mouth uncontrolled.

Ms. Maz grins. “Of course, my boy. Happy to advise you on how to avoid further aggravating a lady.”

Ben balks. “How do you know it’s about a woman?”

“What else could it be about? You look lit from within, Benjamin. All bewitched and wistful, despite the awful weather.” Ms. Maz laughs.

Ben feels a blush mount along his neck and flood his ears. He gives Ms. Maz an embarrassed look, then runs to remove his clothes before catching his death of cold and humiliating himself any further.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 30th story on AO3! Feels like a great milestone.
> 
> ✨Thank you for reading ✨


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